My teen years are a blur of loitering and prowling, in libraries, bookstores, and books themselves. And there may have been some trespassing along the way. (The statute of limitations hasn't expired though, so I'll leave it at that.)

Why does history remember some novels, and forget others? Okay, because most novels are forgettable. But there are some, a handful or two, that brush up against greatness itself, and yet don't seem to get a ticket on the literature train.

One year, I was walking past MAP, a small clothing store on Provincetown's West End. There was a sign that proclaimed, "Today's Special Guest Cashier: Michael Cunningham." I popped in, and sure enough, Mr. Cunningham was seated behind the counter.